There comes a point every summer when someone says, “We should all take a road trip.”
And somehow, no one fakes a medical emergency.
On paper, it sounds charming. Load up the van, hit the road, make memories. That is because “on paper” does not include grandchildren, gas prices, or snack crumbs.
A real road trip begins with grown adults loading the van like we’re preparing for a lunar landing. Suitcases, coolers, pillows, chargers, snacks, mystery bags, and one plastic sack full of shoes nobody claims but everybody insists must come.
Meanwhile, the grandkids climb in like they’re boarding a carnival ride. One wants a window. One wants the snacks.
One is upset because the cupholder “looks sticky,” which is bold coming from someone who once licked syrup off a placemat.
Then there’s the youngest grandson in the very back, facing backward like a tiny king on a parade float. He’s waving at strangers and making faces at truck drivers while I stare at brake lights and question my choices.
By the time we pull out, we are 43 minutes behind schedule, the gas tank is on half, and someone asks, “Are we there yet?” before we’ve made it past the neighborhood pool.
Then comes Auburn Buc-ee’s.
Forty-five minutes from home.
We have not been on the road long enough for the van to develop its first mystery smell, and already we’re pulling into a gas station the size of an airport. Everybody loves Buc-ee’s. But a Buc-ee’s stop is not a stop. It is a lifestyle decision.
It starts with “I just need the restroom” and ends with brisket, cups, Beaver Nuggets, a beach towel, and a wooden sign that says “Welcome-ish.” You walk in needing coffee and come out financially altered.
The bathrooms are clean enough to host a wedding reception, but the rest is chaos with a beaver logo. My wife disappears into home décor, which should not exist inside a gas station, while I hold jerky that requires financing.
Thirty minutes later, we get back in the van. I ask if everyone went to the bathroom. Everyone says yes. We merge onto the interstate, and nine minutes later comes the voice of betrayal.
“I kind of need to go.”
That sound you hear is my soul hitchhiking home.
Then the GPS gets involved. I remember when road trips required a paper map and a father who would rather drive into the Gulf than admit he missed an exit. Now a robot lady sends us down roads with grass in the middle while my wife says, “Are you sure this is right?” Marriage-code for “You have ruined this family.”
Meanwhile, the van becomes its own ecosystem. The front seat is freezing. The middle row is hot. The back smells like cheese crackers and sunscreen. I want classic rock. My wife wants peace. The grandkids want songs that sound like a robot falling down stairs.
And yet, between wrong turns, Buc-ee’s receipts, snack wrappers, and my lower back filing a formal complaint, something sneaks up on you.
The miles slow everybody down. Phones lose service. Somebody tells an old story. One of my grown kids laughs at something they used to do, then says the exact same thing to their own child.
That’s when it hits you. As much as I complain, there is something good about being trapped in a van with your people. Your kids, their kids, all the crumbs, questions, and laughter packed into one rolling circus.
So yes, I’m grumpy. I will complain about packing, traffic, GPS, bathroom timing, gas prices, and the souvenir blanket we needed 45 minutes from home. But I’m grateful too.
Grateful for the places we get to go, the people we ride with, and watching your children make memories with their children from the driver’s seat.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to vacuum the van and have a word with whoever dropped a Buc-ee’s nugget in my shoe.